The dark corners of my skull are filled with voices.They're loud,echoing in the silence that my lost tongue leaves for them,giving life to the deep chambers that sit behind my empty eyes.

When they want to speak,I can't help but listen.Their voices fill me with vitality,though it be one with a sinister and violent nature,and one invisible to the observing eye.

I may be but inanimate.A relic of a life long past.A skull picked clean by birds of prey and scavengers,​set upon a dusty shelf to be forgotten.But what once lent me power over my fellow mandwells inside me still.The fires may appear dead and cold,but one day they will once again arise,flickering inside my empty eyes,ready to light the world aflame once more.

My power will shake the foundations of this earth,and all will be tossed down again,kneeling at my feet with head bowed,ready to serve their true master once more.

There comes a point,where I've done so much people-ing,that I can no longer sort the fantastic from the mundane.The world around me blurs.

No amount of blinking or head-tiltingcan bring it into focus again.Landscapes and faces alikeall seem to lose their definition,no longer important or holding any meaning.

Along with the fuzziness of the world around me,the words that I want to saystart to crumble on my tongue.Their composite parts no loner fitting together,they collapse from my mouth in gibberish,for fight with each other,until only raw chunks of sound emerge instead of whole thoughts.

When I get to that point,I have to retreat from the masses.My room becomes my sanctuary,and the stillness helps me regain my equilibrium.What remains of my sanityslowly returns,dripping back into me like clear cold waterafter a long summer day.And the world makes sense again,falling back into sharp focus,rather than blobs of color shifting in front of my eyes.

Where the snow fell last night,powdered drifts spread and scattered,dulling all sound,like cotton stuffed into your ears.

You can barely hear the soft crunch that your feet makeas they break the surface.

The ground is no longer smooth now.Black breadcrumbs lead backto where you began your journey.A force undeterred by the chilland stillness.Ready to explore this strangepale world.

It's only now that you noticethat with each print you left behind,each step that you carefully made,clawed, deep prints have misaligned with yours,as if they'd passed through a dark mirror,traveling back the way you came.

As you left your quiet home and quiet family,that beast that you know far too well,that you thought you'd banished to diein the wasteland outside yourself,in the dark frost,crept back, right beside you,to that haven of warmth and comfort.

And it's hungry.You know its hunger,its needs,and now there's nothing you can do to stop it.Because as you turn back towards that cozy cottage,a muffled scream skips over the frozen earth,barely reaching you.Now, there's nothing to return to.You are alone​with the beast.

I think that everyone can write.You don't have to have novels under your belt,or certificates, or competition wins.Because you know what?If that's what you want,then you have to start somewhere.

Every book is made up of hundreds of paragraphs or lines,which are just words and sometimes punctuation.That's all they are.So you have to start there.

Pick up a pen,or open your laptop.Stare that blank page in the face.

It's terrifying, I know.

You're probably thinking things like:What if what I put down sounds stupid?What if doesn't resonate the way I want it to?What if I don't turn out to be the next Shakespeare or Stephen King?

Well, if those words that are building up inside younever get released,then how do you know if they'll ever mean something more to youthan just an idea?And how will you know,if they won't mean something to someone else?

Until you try,all that you hold inside of youis an endless potential.It's waiting for you,because you have something that needs to be said,and you have a story that needs to be told.

​Please, for all of us who are waiting with baited breathto hear and read your words,and whose lives your writing will change,and for yourself.Write.

Watch the worldWatch it spinSpin through spaceSpin the daysDays flying byDays creeping pastPast your fading hair dyePast your uneven fingernailsFingernails without paintFingernails hiding yesterday's filthFilth you have clawed outFilth from the insultsInsults thrown your wayInsults seeping into the air you breatheBreathe hot ashBreathe stones and sticksSticks that bruiseSticks constantly breakingBreaking in twoBreaking youYou can only dodge so manyYou have to fall sometimeSometime there will be collateral damageSometime soonSoon you will move to slowlySoon you will meet the groundGround will not cushion youGround that only cares to spinSpin as the earth moves onSpin without a thought for youYou can fallYou can whimperWhimper at the painWhimper for mercyMercy to stop the sticks and stonesMercy in any formForm a shieldForm then appearsAppears so unexpectedAppears a friendFriend with a hand outstretchedFriend lifting you off the dirtDirt steady beneath youDirt that watches the days passPass from humiliationPass into peacePeace the world is still spinningPeace a warm embraceSpinning​Embrace